


The Eliza Manifesto

by fiftysevenacademics (rapiddescent)



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Adultery, Blackmail, Body Image, Cheating, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Gossip, Jealousy, The Reynolds Pamphlet, early american republic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7926142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapiddescent/pseuds/fiftysevenacademics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elizabeth Hamilton learns of her husband's adultery with Maria Reynolds and his blackmail by her husband, James, through the gossip of friends and has to decide where to take a stand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A servant directed Eliza into Mrs. Morris’ parlor about ten minutes late. She heard the murmur of two female voices hush as her heels clicked toward the open door, and two faces turned expectantly, if somewhat guiltily, toward her. Eliza entered the room warily.

“Mrs. Morris, I beg you to forgive my tardiness. My darling little James has given no small amount of trouble this morning, and baby John has been colicky.”

Mary Morris rose, embraced Eliza, then escorted her with one arm draped graciously around her waist to a vacant chair.

“No matter, my dear,” the older woman reassured, pouring tea from a white porcelain teapot with exquisitely painted birds and flowers into a matching cup. “Cream and sugar?”

She stirred the lump of sugar into the tea Mrs. Morris handed her and looked to Mary King, seated on a green velvet settee on her right.

“Mrs. King! How delightful to see you again. It has been just a little under a week, hasn’t it? I believe last time was the Christmas ball hosted by General and Mrs. Knox.”

“I think you’re right, Mrs. Hamilton, but I’m afraid I can’t say for sure.”

Eliza and Mrs. Morris registered surprise.

“I find that making the rounds of parties that lead up to Christmas is always a bit overwhelming,” she laughed nervously.

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Morris agreed. “They are always good fun but now that we are just days away, more intimate gatherings fit so much more smoothly into all that accompanies family preparations for the holiday itself.”

“How is Mr. Hamilton?” Mrs. King asked. Mrs. Morris chastised her with her eyes. For a brief moment Eliza heard nothing but the rustle of taffeta and the clink of her own cup as she set it down on the saucer.

Mrs. King flinched, then quickly replied with an apologetic glance toward Mrs. Morris. “I mean, it has been ages since I have had the satisfaction of conversing with your amiable husband.”

Confused, Eliza answered slowly, “Mr. Hamilton has been in good health, though he seems preoccupied of late.”

Mrs. King and Mrs. Morris exchanged meaningful looks.

“His work as Treasurer must leave him frequently preoccupied,” Mrs. Morris offered a bit too quickly.

“Yes, I’m certain that’s all it is.”

The strange behavior of her friends unnerved Eliza. The rest of their conversation passed as a low buzz in her ears, of which she remembered little.

Late in the afternoon, as Eliza supervised Philip, Angelica, and Alexander at their studies, someone knocked on the front door. She opened it herself to find Mary King standing on the step wrapped in a fur-lined velvet cloak against the Philadelphia winter.

“Mrs. King! Do come in and sit by the fire. You will catch your death of a cold.”

Mary stepped into the hallway but refused Eliza’s attempt to direct her into the sitting room.

“Mrs. Hamilton… Elizabeth,” she said, dropping the formality and taking one of Eliza’s hands into the soft white glove on her own.

“I shan’t deprive your precious children of their mother’s guidance for long. I have been most conflicted since my mistake during Mrs. Morris’ tea, and have come to apologize.”

“Mistake? I’m sure you have done nothing to require an apology,” replied Eliza politely, reeling with the certainty that her instincts earlier that morning had not steered her in the wrong direction. Something was up.

“Mrs. Morris asked me not to bring up the subject of your husband, but I forgot.”

Observing the uncomprehending and increasingly distressed expression on Eliza’s face, she continued, “Elizabeth, my dear, there’s something you should know, and I pray you will be grateful to hear it from a friend first.”

Eliza freed her hand from Mary’s gentle grasp and stepped a pace away, struggling to contain her growing horror.

“A rumor is circulating that Mr. Hamilton has had an improper connection with a married woman.”

If Mary had hit her with her shoe, it could not have shocked Eliza more, but she maintained what she hoped was a casual, friendly demeanor.

“How long has this rumor been going around?”

“I heard it whispered at Mrs. Knox’s ball.”

“And everyone knows by now but me.”

Mary looked awkwardly toward the floral wallpaper.

“There’s more. They say Mr. Hamilton paid the woman’s husband money not to tell you about it.”

Eliza rode a wave of nausea that broke on a mountain of rage.

“Who told you this? Which of my husband's enemies has been spreading this lie!”

“I heard it from Mrs. Monroe.”

Emotion overtook every region of her brain and her tongue heroically held back tears. Mary gave her a tentative hug and kissed her cheek.

“I’m so sorry. I thought you should know.”

With both hands she replaced the hood over her puffy hair, pulled the cloak tightly around herself, and left.

Rooted in place, Eliza waited for the room to come back into focus and for her heart to slow down before reaching for her own cloak and gloves.

“Miss Byrne!” she called, and a young Irish woman appeared. “Please see that the children have dinner and get ready for bed. Tell them their mother will return in time to tuck them in.”

Eliza barely noticed the flakes drifting to join their frozen family on the ground as she hurried through the streets, teeth clenched, thoughts racing. When she reached the Monroe residence, she pounded rudely on the door. An elderly black man in livery ushered her into a parlor, where the lady of the house joined her.

“Why, Mrs. Hamilton! To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your visit?”

“I’m not here for pleasure, Mrs. Monroe. I’ll cut right to the matter at hand. Why have you been telling people my husband had an involvement with another woman?”

“Because it’s true.”

“You lie! Mr. Hamilton would do no such thing.”

Elizabeth Monroe laughed acidly. Her large, powdered hedgehog hairstyle shook with effort.

“Mrs. Hamilton, there are many things about your husband that you don’t know. But your affliction causes me distress. Here, let me show you.”

Down a long hallway, they arrived into a dim room lined with bookcases, with a writing table next to the fireplace. Mrs. Monroe lifted a plaster bust of her father-in-law from the mantel and removed from beneath it a key. With it, she opened the writing desk and fished around until she pulled out a thick packet tied with a ribbon. She offered it to Eliza, who hefted it back and forth in her hands, deciding if she really wanted to open it.

“Take it over to the window. You’ll see it better,” Mrs. Monroe advised.

She crossed the room and hesitantly untied the ribbon. Inside the paper wrapper lay dozens of letters in two unfamiliar hands. She picked up one with irregular lines and slanted script.

_Col. Hamilton_

_Dear Sir_

_I have not tim to tell you the cause of my present troubles only that Mr. has rote to you this morning and I know not wether you have got the letter or not and he has swore that If you do not answer It or If he dose not se or hear from you to day he will write Mrs. Hamilton he has just Gone oute and I am a Lone I think you had better come here one moment that you May know the Cause then you will the better know how to act Oh my God I feel more for you than myself and wish I had never been born to give you so mutch unhappisness do not rite to him no not a Line but come here soon do not send or leave any thing in his power_

_Maria_

Eliza held her breath and chose another letter, which she skimmed because she could not bear to read it in detail.

_My pillow wich your Neglect has filled with the sharpest thorns… be not so voed of all humannity as to deni me this Last request but if you will not Call some time this night I no its late but any tim between this and twelve A Clock I shall be up Let me Intreat you If you wont Come to send me a Line…_

_I shal be misarable till I se you and if my dear freend has the Least Esteeme for the unhappy Maria whos grateest fault is Loveing him he will come as soon as he shall get this…P S. If you cannot come this Eveneng to stay just come only for one moment as I shal be Lone Mr. is going to sup with a friend from New-York._

She threw it to the floor and took another letter, eyes flying toward the end.

_I am now A lone and shal be for afew days I believe till Wensday though am not sartain and would wish to se you this Evening If poseble If not as soon as you can make It Convenent oh my dear freend how shal I pleade Enough what shal I say Let me beg of you to Come and If you never se me again oh If you think It best I will submit to It and take a long and last adieu_

_Mari_

Mari! The letters had arrived over a period of months, enough time for him to have a pet name for his lover. Of all things, the nickname devastated her. Eliza swallowed a scream and chose another letter.

_Received on December 22 of Alexander Hamilton six hundred dollars on account of a sum of one thousand dollars due to me._

_James Reynolds_

December 22. Exactly one year ago today. She threw the packet to the floor, scattering letters everywhere, despair lending conviction to her anger.

“Someone has written these letters to tarnish my husband’s reputation and destroy his office!”

“No, Mrs. Hamilton. My husband would not have told me had that been the case.”

“Your husband told you?”

“Yes, how could he not? I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hamilton, but it is like a novel or a play.”

“What does Mr. Monroe know about it?”

“It should be obvious that Mr. Reynolds is a most unsavory character. He was arrested for fraud, and claimed Mr. Hamilton gave him money to invest. My husband was one of the members of Congress who visited Mr. Hamilton on December 15 to determine if he engaged in speculation with treasury money. Mr. Hamilton told Mr. Monroe that he had only paid Mr. Reynolds money to cover up a dalliance with his wife, and gave my husband the letters to prove it.”

Eliza turned toward the window to hide her shame. An urge to leap through the glass and break her body on the frigid earth below seized her, and she gripped the windowsill with white knuckles to resist it.

“Does Mr. Monroe know that you have found the letters, and that you’ve shared the secret?”

Mrs. Monroe laughed again.

“Do _you_ tell your husband everything we ladies discuss over our needlework? Of course not. Only women know for now. He also doesn’t know I know where he keeps the key to his desk.”

She fumbled to a chair and gave way to tears. Mrs. Monroe patted her shoulder solicitously.

"There, there. Men do these things from time to time. And it must be so much harder for Mr. Hamilton to resist the temptations posed by women of Mrs. Reynolds’... _quality_.”

Eliza stopped crying and looked up.

“What do you mean.”

“He’s a Creole. When you grow up in that climate, in those sensual islands, it changes your blood.”

Eliza shot to her feet.

“You! Be careful what you say!”

Mrs. Monroe took a step back in case Eliza decided to swing out at her.

“Did you know I met your husband the very day he arrived in this land?” she asked casually.

“What?”

“It’s true. My father, Lawrence Kortright, owned a company together with Nicholas Cruger, who employed Mr. Hamilton in St. Croix. Mr. Hamilton arrived in New York with a letter of introduction to my father from Mr. Cruger.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Mrs. Monroe ignored her.

“I was only four years old, of course, so all I remember is the strange boy with an unusual accent and skin tanned so brown by the sun, I wondered why Papa allowed a black boy to eat at our table. Later, as Mr. Hamilton’s fame rose, my older sisters enjoyed telling me how attractive they had found his easy smile and sparkling eyes, in spite of his old fashioned jacket. It was of good quality stuff and well-made, they said, but at least a decade out of style and had obviously been altered to suit the current fashion.”

Lightheaded, Eliza feared she might faint. In her mind’s eye, she lunged at Mrs. Monroe, throwing her to the ground and stuffing those letters into her mouth. The stories untethered her from her husband, and she floated off into a parallel universe where Alexander shared secrets with women to which she, who devoted her life to understanding him, and her heart to loving him without restraint, had no access. She simultaneously wanted to pummel him for what he had done, and take the impoverished Caribbean boy in the shabby jacket into her arms and beat away the hostile world.

“I’m just saying, Mrs. Hamilton, that given your husband’s _background_ I think you’ve been lucky so far. I recommend you simply look the other way.”

Eliza bore daggers into Mrs. Monroe with her eyes and stormed out of the house without a word.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. This turned out with a much higher sexual content than I had expected. It's necessary for character development and not very explicit, though.

In the hours between the children’s bedtime and Alexander’s return from work, long after dark, Eliza roamed the house, as if following clues that would lead to an answer. Sometimes, seized by a sense of urgency, she ran, spilling hot wax from the taper she carried onto her wrist. When she noticed the pain at all, it brought her to her senses and she stood, dazed, blinking at the furniture. She sat on chairs she rarely used, opened curtains then closed them again, examined knickknacks on shelves as if seeing them for the first time. Every artifact that made their conjoined lives material, every physical trace of their shared effort, pleasure, and hope felt alien, like objects of a ruined civilization.

If she remained still for too long, a bubble swelled in her chest and she moved on before it forced out a scream, until at last she came to a small portrait. She remembered Alexander’s uncharacteristic bashfulness handing it to her, during their engagement, and the thrill of recognizing in this gift a commitment to remaining foremost in her thoughts. The same blue eyes gazed dreamily out from the ivory that would soon look into hers across the pillow, and the same lips parted that she would soon feel on hers. The bubble popped and she collapsed with a howl, holding her knees to her chest and rocking back and forth sobbing on the carpet.

At some point, she noticed the room had grown quiet, and realized her tears had stopped. The candle had burned out and she lay, spent, on the floor in the dark. She felt her way to the door, then down the hall to the living room, where embers still glowed in the fireplace. With a twist of paper taken from a holder on the mantel, she lit another candle and shuffled to her bedroom, where she undressed, took down her hair, and splashed her face with cold water from a pitcher on the dressing table.

As she brushed her hair in front of the mirror, she saw Maria’s face reflected instead of her own. Maria had round cheeks, laughing eyes, and ginger hair. Maria had a thin face with a pointed chin and thick blonde curls. Maria had the glossy black hair, olive skin, and the coal-like eyes of an Italian princess.

Unbidden, Mrs. Monroe’s words sounded in her head, “He’s a Creole. You’ve been lucky so far.”

Did all white men in the West Indies really did have countless slave lovers? Did they all grow weak and degenerate with lust and vice? Had her virtuous Hamilton finally succumbed to a force of nature stronger than his enviable will? Maria had luminous brown skin, regal cheekbones, and eyes as deep as the ocean.

She buried her face in her hands, unable to stop imagining the woman with whom she had shared her husband’s body, when she felt his hand rest softly on her shoulder.

“Alexander! I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You look like you’ve been crying. What’s wrong?”

He stood behind her, and she looked at his reflection in the mirror. Should she tell him? She didn’t know how to say it.

“Our children have left me very tired today, I’m afraid.”

Alexander kneaded her shoulders.

“My poor, beloved girl! I get to come home at the end of the day, but you work always at your job,” he soothed, brushing her hair aside and kissing the nape of her neck.

In the mirror, to Eliza, it was Maria he kissed. When he reached for her under the bedclothes, she refused him.

“Just hold me,” she whispered.

By the light of day, her world looked different. Exhausted from grief, Eliza had slept well and gave the children breakfast with a clear head, though not a light heart. Each smile from Angelica, each giggle from Philip, each gurgle of baby John brought her strength and distance from the previous day. 

_My dear Angelica,_

_Please overlook the brevity of my note, and forgive if I neglect to inquire after your family, but I write you today with a heart most grievously afflicted by doubt. Some women, particularly, one Mrs. M, have been spreading the story that my Alexander dallied with a married woman and paid her husband to not tell me. I have seen letters to indicate the truth of this story, and confess to suffering a great deal of sadness yesterday. Today, however, feel more certain that the letters could be forgeries, and the story planted to ruin my husband. I have not told him of anything, as I fear I may be playing into his enemies’ hands, and also have no wish to bring discord into our family unless necessary. I do not know what to think or what to do. Oh, to have the benefit of your comforting arms! But since that is not possible, it would please me to hear a few words of solace from my sister to her unhappy,_

_Eliza_

She felt more confident, watching Miss Byrne take the letter to the post, and went about decorating the house for Christmas solemnly, but without the numbness of yesterday. By the end of the day, one basic fact shined through her shame, confusion, and anger, and became a kind of manifesto. 

"Alexander came to this country with enough genius to be successful, but without me, he could never have become powerful. Without me, he would still be a clerk working for greater men. He might have found fortune and fame, but my family made possible his vision for America. History will credit Alexander for creating a strong central government, but it is therefore also a Schuyler achievement. 

Without me, he will return to where I found him: a talented, capable, industrious man who depends on the approval of his patrons. Except now, his enemies will tear him down, and with him, our republic. 

Although my sex prevented me from fighting for freedom by General Washington's side, I did for my country what no man could when I gave Hamilton my hand. That I did so out of love makes it no less a patriotic act.

Is my honor worth the sacrifice of our republic? Men will do anything to protect their honor, but women's honor works differently. Alexander has fought long and hard for America. My part in the building of our nation is to fight long and hard for Alexander. 

I have lived through war and revolution, and I will live through this." 

She would never divorce him, but every hour she had a different opinion of whether to confront him or not. One moment her wounded pride demanded satisfaction. The next, it told her not to empower the Reynolds by acknowledging their damage, or dignify a gossip like Elizabeth Monroe. Another day passed and she said nothing about the matter to her husband.

Christmas Eve arrived the following day with the sun chasing away a flurry of snow. Friends visited, refreshments circulated throughout the day, and the sounds of children's laughter, as well as their occasional squabble, filled the house. That evening, after a long, elaborate supper during which Alexander chattered gaily and kept the table in stitches, Eliza watched her tired, happy children clamber all over him on the sofa, listening to him read bedtime stories with rapt attention.

Baby John, she held on her lap, and a terrible thought seized her: His conception coincided with Maria Reynolds. How many times had her husband returned from his lover to lay directly with his wife? Her skin crawled, and she hugged him tightly lest he pick up on her horror. 

Undressing for bed, Maria consumed her. Maria had young, round breasts and a firm stomach. She ran her hands over her own breasts, saggy from nursing, and her belly, slack from years of childbearing. Unsupported by stays, her body no longer looked girlish. His affair should not have come as a surprise. What man could say no to a beautiful young woman when his wife looked like this? Though Alexander gave every sign of wanting her, she could no longer bear his touch.

Eliza continued to love Alexander. She laughed with him, listened to him read his writing aloud while he worked, wrote for him when his hand tired, and allowed him to take her arm when they strolled in the park. But when he leaned in for a kiss, she moved aside. In bed, no matter how urgent his need, she left the room and did not return until his ardor had cooled. 

After a week, Eliza noticed a tiny thrill every time she denied Alexander. She reacted with smug sense of superiority to the pleading look on his face as she rose from the bed, the helpless little "Hello" he croaked upon her return, the way he vibrated with pent up desire and confusion as she turned her back to him, forbidding even the lightest caress.

She had never merely submitted to her wifely duty. Alexander, the overachiever, paid minute attention to her pleasure, discovering ways to satisfy her that she would have thought pornographic had they occurred in a novel and not in the privacy of their marital bed. Her body responded eagerly to his advances, and she often wore his favorite scents, her lowest cut bodices, and dabbed rouge on her lips just to provoke them. But not once had she ever approached him. She knew how to receive the delights he offered, but did not know how to ask for what she wanted. Indeed, she didn't even know what she wanted.

When she refused to yield her recoiling flesh, it ignited a spark that rapidly grew into a flame illuminating one thing: "This. I want this."

To punish him. To divorce herself from him, while remaining committed to him. To nurse her bruised femininity with his unrequited desire. 

She started luring him with her usual methods and, when he showed interest, kissing him lightly on the lips saying, "Not tonight." 

Soon, this failed to excite her, so she took a bolder approach. At odd moments she casually allowed her bosom to brush up against his arm, lingering long enough for it to sink slightly into her cleavage. Or, as she sat side by side with him, helping him write late at night, she let her free hand fall onto his thigh, high enough for her to feel how passionately he welcomed her touch. She timed her nightly undressing so that when he walked in the room, she would be just releasing her torso from the stays, and he saw her breasts swing freely beneath her sheer linen chemise. But she did not let him place a hand, or any other part, on her.

She did not back down on his birthday. 

"Why are you punishing me?" he wailed as her lips skimmed his collarbone.

"Am I punishing you? Have you done something that deserves punishment?"

He looked away without replying.

"Perhaps if you confess your crime, the punishment will cease."

Alexander looked as if he were about to speak, but for once in his life, did not know what to say.

_Beloved sister,_

_How it grieved my heart to read your letter of 23 December! I wish it were in my power to fly to your side. The treacherous thing my brother has done has caused his faithful Eliza irreparable harm, and I am unable to help her. Even should the rumor be untrue, the worm of mistrust will eat at your heart forever. How unfair is a world in which men repay the virtue of their wives with betrayal and disgrace! Have you chosen a course of action? My sweet sister, I need not caution you to think well and proceed cautiously, because I am certain that you will. Our Alexander may have made a terrible mistake, and it is necessary to be careful, lest one mistake compound another. You may rightfully question your love for your husband, and his love for you. But I know you well enough to know that you, who have been the helpmate and companion of a prince, would never find happiness with a common man. Your beautiful children love their father, and he, them. Your husband has done much to compromise your happy family. It is up to you to preserve it as best you can while doing what you must to restore your dignity. Stay strong, Eliza! Whatever you decide to do, I remain your loyal sister,_

_Angelica_

Angelica's letter reassured Eliza that she had chosen the correct course of action. Should the rumor prove false, a confrontation could lodge an unsealable crack between them. Should he admit its truth, the heat of the moment could push her into rash action. Angelica made a point that she understood all too well. If she divorced Alexander, at her age, what options would she have? Return to live with her father? Marry a debauched middle aged bachelor like Gouverneur Morris? Or, more likely, a rich widower who, though attentive to her, would never wield Hamilton’s power?

She wore the name "Mrs.Hamilton" like a royal title, and felt like a queen by his side. She did not want to leave him, and had no desire to drag Maria Reynolds and her wretched husband into their marriage. She had wed Alexander only. She refused to also marry the ghost of his adultery. And she had found the medicine to cure her wounds.

One evening, after bringing him almost to the point of no return, then leaving, she returned to their room to find him hastily covering his lower half with a sheet, his face melting with embarrassment.

"Don't stop."

"Eliza, I'm... It's just that..." he stammered in a voice thick with arousal and anxiety.

"Do it," she ordered.

He removed the sheet and brought himself to a climax while Eliza watched from the other side of the room. The sight of his naked body surprised and pleased her, but to see him perform a most intimate act at her command intoxicated her with a power that summoned her own desire. The next morning, after he left for work, she replayed the scene in her mind. The tenuous expression mixed with lust, his lean body subjected to her eyes, and his ultimate submission to her will blended into a potent brew that saturated her veins and turned her legs to water. She locked herself in her room and quickly took care of her need.

Over the months that followed, Eliza's torment of her husband grew stricter and more creative the more it aroused her. She fondled him, undressed him, kissed him wherever she wanted, stripped slowly and teasingly for him and, when it suited her, allowed him to satisfy himself. Alexander awaited her direction and complied readily. Eventually this unusual turn of events excited him as much as her. However, if he responded too eagerly, or tried to turn the moment to his advantage, or even if she had a moment of distress over his unfaithfulness, she would not let him finish at all. They had frequent erotic contact, but not once did she permit him to touch her, or observe her own solitary ecstasies.

Gradually his hands or mouth on her crept into her fantasies. She watched him with a familiar longing that felt new, and several times nearly gave in when he pleaded for her to relent. Heated dreams writhing with their bodies woke her almost nightly. One cold night nearly a year to the day, she could not wait till morning and told him to lay on the bed. She straddled and rode him, energy rising and rising until it burst from her in a violent shudder and shout, which he followed a moment later.

Relaxing on top of him, she bent with a languorous face and kissed him tenderly.

"I love you," she sighed, sliding onto her back.

Alexander raised himself on one elbow to look at her.

"Eliza?"

"What?"

"May I kiss you?"

"Yes."

He leaned over and kissed her.

"I love you too."

She pulled him closer.

"Are you ready for more?"

"Whatever you want," he nodded.

"I want you to make love to me."

They did not sleep till nearly dawn, and awoke filled with joy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a bow, Monroe began what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech, stating that it was many years since they had met, that the lapse of time brought its softening influences, that they both were nearing the grave, when past differences could be forgiven and forgotten.
> 
> Eliza saw that Monroe was trying to draw a moral equation between them and apportion blame equally for the long rupture in their relationship. Even at this late date, thirty years after the fact, she was not in the forgiving mood. “Mr. Monroe,” she told him, “if you have come to tell me that you repent, that you are sorry, very sorry, for the misrepresentations and the slanders and the stories you circulated against my dear husband, if you have come to say this, I understand it. But otherwise, no lapse of time, no nearness to the grave, makes any difference.” Monroe took in this rebuke without comment. Stunned by the fiery words delivered by the elderly little woman in widow’s weeds, the ex-president picked up his hat, bid Eliza good day, and left the house, never to return. (Ron Chernow-- _Alexander Hamilton_ )

"Eliza, there's something I need to tell you. You'll want to sit down."

The concern in Alexander's voice and his beleaguered expression triggered a cascade of fears in Eliza. She sat on a sofa in the parlor, turning her wary face in his direction. 

"So much for a pleasant Sunday with my husband and children," she thought grimly.

Alexander sat next to her and pulled from an embroidered pocket of his pink silk waistcoat a pamphlet, open to one particular item visible on top, and set it on her lap. Eliza stared at the black lines and wished them nothing more than delicately embroidered vines on the frothy layers of her sheer white linen petticoats. She never knew what insult or threat Alexander wished her to find with these ominous gestures, and tired of performing the delicate show of giving the advice he needed, whether he wanted to hear it or not, while reacting as he wished. She dreaded to read it, yet she did.

_The unfounded reproaches heaped on Mr. Monroe, form the immediate motive to the publication of these papers. They are here printed from an attested copy, exactly conformable to that, which, at his own desire, was delivered to Mr. Hamilton himself. Not a word has been added or altered, and the period of four years may, surely, have been enough to furnish the ex-secretary with materials for his defence. In the letters of Camillus, the most sublime principles of action are every where inculcated. But we shall presently see this great matter of morality, though himself the father of a family, confessing that he had an illicit correspondence with another man's wife. If anything can be yet less reputable, it is, that the gentlemen to whom he made that acknowledgement held it as an imposition, and found various reasons for believing that Mrs. Reynolds was, in reality, guiltless. An attentive critic will be led to enquire what has become of her husband, and why the indignant innocence of Mr. Hamilton, did not promote the completion of public justice against a person, who had treated his name with such gross dissrespect? What a scandalous imputation was it for this culprit to cast upon our secretary, that he had gained thirty thousand dollars by the purchase of army certificates, that this fellow could bring him to capital punishment &c. &c.? It is to be wished that Reynolds may still be found, and that, to borrow the words of his friend, Dr. William Smith, The Secretary may come out of this matter, as fair as the purest angel in heaven! _

_Before committing the following papers to the world, their editor must again beg leave to remark, that they are nothing more or less than than exact copies, from attested originals, of which Mr. Hamilton, as hereafter specified, has been, at his own desire, supplied with an accurate transcript._

Eliza read, in print, all the letters she had read so many years before and calmly returned the brick of paper.

"You're not angry?"

It sounded more like begging than a question.

"It's a rumor, Alexander. A few lines written by a scandal monger in league with your enemies."

"Callender impugns my reputation with the implication I used public funds for speculation."

"Speculation. Ha! Is that the real problem here?" Her voice sounded sardonic in her head, but out loud she replied, "Does anyone take him seriously?"

"Without my reputation I'm a doomed man."

"So I've heard," she drawled sarcastically.

"If the public loses confidence in my reputation, my career will be over. This requires a public response."

"If the people who matter know it's not true, what do you have to worry about?" 

She placated him with words, but accused him with her eyes, under which he withered, as had become his habit over the past few years.

"Eliza, the thing is, the people who matter have sold me out," he stammered, taking her hands in his. The story spilled like water from a fountain. Eliza listened patiently, and when he had finished, placed his hands back on his lap.

"Say something," he pleaded.

"What can I say? I've been asking myself that for years."

"You knew?"

"Alexander, this has been an open secret among your enemies. Surely, you know that."

He nodded sheepishly. 

"But you're not my enemy."

Eliza coughed with disgust.

"How do you think word got around? Men of honor are supposed to keep secrets, and yet, I'm sure that they do not. Every man who knows a secret has probably whispered it to a woman. Men think they shield us from the ugliest side of their reputations, but we women know everything, and some, undoubtedly, make sure their men do, too. How could you even _think_ I would not know."

"I'm very, very sorry, Eliza," he said pathetically.

"So it's true, then."

"I'm afraid so."

Eliza experienced a strange blend of shock and boredom, like surprise to receive the very gift she had expected.

"I feel nothing but shame for what I have done, and will regret to the end of my days the harm I have done to one who loves me so well." 

Tears welled behind his eyelids and he tried to take her hands again, but she resisted.

"I forgave you long ago, Alexander," she said in a firm, quiet voice that filled him with apprehension. "Whether the rumor were true or not, I knew that if our Savior can forgive us the worst things we do, I can forgive your simple human frailty. I've read all those letters before, you know."

Alexander faced her, stunned.

"How?"

"Mrs. Monroe."

In the pause before his reply, they laid siege together against the word, "Monroe."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

Now she took his hands, and stroked the fine hair on the back of his fingers.

"Once upon a time, you asked if I relished being a poor man's wife. You presented the worst scenarios imaginable. You had nothing to offer but your talent and your love. I married you knowing that you were no ordinary man, in extraordinary times, and that our life together would navigate an uncharted river. When I said yes, I meant forever, come what may. Stooping to acknowledge the most profane of assaults upon our sacred marriage is an act worthy only of a far more common woman than I." 

She couldn't tell if he had begun to cry, or hyperventilated from stress.

"You shared something with that woman that you will never share with me, and took money from our children's hands to do so. Because you didn't have enough faith in me to immediately tell the truth, you allowed yourself to be used by her husband in a way that left you, and our entire family, exposed. Publishing your adultery can only harm us, but when has anyone ever been able to stop you once you have your mind made up? You fed yourself to a pair of dogs, and now Monroe's pack has returned for the leftovers. I will not let dogs tear our family apart."

Alexander didn't move, afraid to disturb the fate that hung in balance against the feather of her breath.

"I can't say I wasn't angry. It hurt. It still hurts, and probably always will. I questioned you, I questioned myself, and it took a long time to find peace in my heart with what you did. But, in a way, I did tell you."

Her cheeks flushed and her eyes slid to the corner of their lids to gauge his reaction. His back stiffened, and his lips parted with recognition.

"You mean... All that time... Is that what _that_ was about?"

Eliza nodded, eyes downcast so he wouldn't see how secretly pleased with herself she felt. He slipped off the chair onto his knees, wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed his cheek against her thighs.

"I owe you everything, Eliza."

She untied the ribbon holding his hair and ran her fingers through, enclosing a large clump in her fist.

"You do. And I think we've established how you can begin to repay."

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if Eliza Hamilton was friends with these women, but I do imagine she knew them. Morris and King were Hamilton's friends, so I decided that their wives might've been Eliza's friends, too. The Reynolds Affair was more or less an open secret among political insiders before Hamilton ever published the Pamphlet, so I imagine Eliza knew about it and had made her peace with Hamilton before it ever came out. I was wondering how she learned about it, and decided it would have come to her through the gossip of her friends. When I read that Elizabeth Monroe was Lawrence Kortright's daughter, it all fell into place, and made the eternal grudge Eliza held against James Monroe even more powerful. Also, if it pisses people off that I posted this in the American Revolution tag, let me know and I'll remove it. There weren't many fandoms to choose from.


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